The Great Hiwassee Handcar Massacre
(This story was originally told by Frank McGuinn. A hand full of us were hanging around after a Trout Unlimited meeting one evening. All of us were entranced by the tale, and I have resolved to write it down, as best I can. I consider it to be a priceless piece of Hiwassee River memorabilia.)
It happened in the early 70’s. Frank McGuinn had a friend, also named Frank, Frank W, who sometimes fished with him. They often fished the stretch between Reliance and Big Bend. This was only accessible by either hiking the railroad tracks, or the trail. Over time, they came to discuss the possibility of putting together a handcar to make the trips easier. They were aware that the railroad would probably not approve of such a device.
Frank’s friend Frank W owned a machine shop. One day, Frank W called Frank. Wanted to show him something at his shop.
It was a handcar! Welded angle frame, axles made of shafting, wheels fabricated from big pipe sections with welded flanges, a gas motor salvaged from an old cement mixer, minimal brakes, and a belt arrangement that provided for disengaging the drive. It was light enough so that 2 people could load and unload it from a truck!
They tried it out on a side track, and everything worked well enough, but what then? They were afraid to use it. The prospect of getting into serious trouble with the railroad, or worse yet, getting run over by a train, left the handcar idle.
Then, one day, the headlines in the paper were about a coming railroad strike. The trains would be shut down! Frank called Frank W, and they made their plans.
The morning arrived, quiet, no trains, a cold day in February, the dead of winter. The unloading went well, and they packed up their gear and proceeded upriver to a side track above Big Island. The two had a fine morning of fishing, and lunchtime came. They turned the car around and went back downriver to Webb’s Texaco to get something to eat and warm up. As luck would have it, Jim Webb was there, and they told him they had something to show him.
He smiled as they beamed with pride, showing him the features of their creation. They turned the car around, and, of course, Jim went with them back upriver for an afternoon’s fishing. Trout were everywhere, and they caught fish, and laughed, and talked about a lot of things, mostly about the car. Until they heard the sound.
Sound is a funny thing in the mountains. The labyrinth of ridges blocks it, then if a train comes around a bend, all of a sudden it’s there! And it was! But there weren’t supposed to be any trains! They heard another sound, a horrific screeching of brakes. Then the final sound, a sickening crash.
They were wading at the bottom of a steep bank, and they huddled close against it, so they couldn’t be seen from the tracks. The engineer got out and looked around. He knew someone had to be associated with the handcar.
Frank M, Frank W, and Jim waited. And waited. Finally, Frank W decided to go up and talk to the engineer. He talked, and pleaded. He explained. There weren’t supposed to be any trains there! Turns out they were supervisory personnel, inspecting for possible vandalism associated with the strike.
“Tell you what”, said Frank M, “if you don’t report this, we won’t hold the railroad responsible for damage to the car.”
“Damage to the car!” said the engineer, “I probably flattened every wheel on this train!”
The trio seemed like nice enough folks. Couldn’t he just go on, and not report it? He said he would have to account for the lost time. “Tell them you hit a fallen tree!”, said Frank W.
And so it was, or so they thought. Time passed quietly. The handcar was gone, and would not be rebuilt. Then one day, a railroad detective showed up at Frank W‘s door. Apparently, the promise not to mention the incident had been broken. But Frank W was nothing if not personable, and he kept a bottle around, and shared freely. In due course the detective was convinced that all was well, and invited back sometime. And that was, finally, the end of that.
Until a few years back, there was an old sidetrack where the railroad leaves the river below Little Rock Island. For some years after the incident, one could see the remains of the sidecar there, but now it is gone, and no one knows where. Except for Frank McGuinn’s account, the great handcar massacre would be forgotten.
As told by Frank McGuinn, as remembered by Don Denney, 1 February, 2002.
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